At last, like a highway robber
by Genevieve Kaplan
Originally published in Issue 07 of Manor House Quarterly: MYTH.
Around the bend, the next
bend, holding prey—rats, squirrels—and having
talons. Identifying shapes of leaves, tire tracks
through the gravel, low calling of the dirts—of shuffed
dirts and mountains where sea is on the other side.
All would be more silent if location wasn’t
so nervous-making, if it didn’t mean in demonstrating and telling
and retelling: raccoon: coyote. Such desperate measures
in the shadow and in the dark: I saw a scare in his eye
as he determined to cross the road and goofed there, mismeasured
the stopping distance, misheard howling in the backwoods, the circling
of wings—above the afternoon tract of canyon where pines
and vines and moss and cacti all at once—shut in
so the sun comes only hourly, counted by hours, and by the number
of times claim was attempted, land was lost and left. Forcing
this piece into the scheme, the scheme into the moment, the scones
onto the table in the book that was almost
perfect, so true, and so close to the one meant to be written there.
